When I showed the video to my brother, his face turned red with rage. He slammed the table and roared, “Over my dead body! Damn if I’ll throw a party for that bastard’s child. Sabrina, tomorrow we’re not going anywhere.”
“No,” I said with a smirk. “We’re going. They want excitement? Fine. I’ll make sure they get all the excitement they can handle in front of everyone.”
The next day, I stepped into the reserved event room.
My mother-in-law immediately stormed over with the baby in her arms, glaring at me. “Sabrina, why did you shove my grandson onto some stranger yesterday? Were you trying to force us into babysitting for you?”
Brows knitted, she continued, “And where’s Phyll? Don’t tell me you threw another jealous fit about him and Barbara and drove him away. They grew up together, running around without a stitch of clothing. What they have is pure friendship. You’re the only one making a fuss every day.”
Then she shot her brow upward and spat, “Don’t think you’re some queen just because you had a child. Our family doesn’t spoil mothers that way. Call Phyll right now, apologize to him, and take care of your own kid. Otherwise, I’ll make sure my son divorces you.”